


The Misses Mission

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [12]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Happy Birthday Hobbes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 06:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20223082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Happy birthday, hobbeshalftail3469! Here’s some smut I made earlier...





	The Misses Mission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbeshalftail3469](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbeshalftail3469/gifts).

> So this is in the Denmark Street series because it’s a random piece of Strike and Robin, but it’s actually a cheeky follow-up to First Misses Q and R. You don’t have to have read those, but it’s recommended as they really do set the scene. It can’t go in that series because they really, really don’t miss. 😂🔥
> 
> Slightly tongue-in-cheek and a little OOC. 😜

Strike lay in his bed - Stephen’s bed, Robin’s brother’s bed, for fuck’s sake - and knew he had no hope of sleeping. But for that wretched dog, he and Robin would have been snogging one another’s faces off now, he was sure of it. They’d had various moments in recent months, not least the one on the back of the quad bike in the pub car park earlier, but tonight, in the kitchen—

_Bloody dog._

He sighed and turned over. He remembered the feel of her in his arms as he clung to her on the back of that bike. She was softer than he’d imagined, generous curves he longed to explore, her hair in his face smelling of roses, her backside pressed against his groin and the vibrations from the engine thrumming through their bodies...

Great. Now he had another erection to deal with.

He wondered if Robin was awake. He wondered if she was thinking about their evening, too. He wondered how creaky the floorboards in the hall of this ancient house were.

_Stop it, Strike. You can’t seriously be considering finally trying something on for the first time with Robin while you’re under the same roof as her parents._

He sighed. But tomorrow they’d be back in work mode. Cool, professional Robin would have replaced the softly curving, impishly grinning, quad-bike-riding sexy woman he had gone to the pub with tonight. He wanted that Robin back.

Strike sat up and reached for his prosthesis.

...

Robin lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She wished Strike hadn’t taken himself off to his room. She’d wanted to get rid of her dad and the dog, to talk, to find out what had changed tonight, to assure herself she wasn’t imagining it.

_Who are you kidding, Ellacott? You didn’t want to talk to him. You wanted to bite that top lip, run your fingers through his hair, undo his shirt buttons—_

She groaned and turned over. Arousal swelled warm in her groin and she squeezed her thighs together and sighed. Maybe he was awake. Maybe he was thinking about her too. Maybe she could creep across the hall to his room.

And then what? If he wasn’t awake?

Robin grinned to herself. At least she’d know from outside the door if he was awake or not. Strike was a prodigious snorer at the best of times, and tonight he’d had a couple of glasses of wine and four pints. She’d probably be able to hear from here once he was properly asleep.

She sat up and slid her feet to the floor.

Leaning forward to stand, she froze. Slowly she sat back. She knew every creak and groan of this old house that she had grown up in. Someone was creeping, very, very carefully, down the hall.

Barely breathing, Robin listened. That floorboard she’d heard was the one outside Stephen’s room. She could remember lying awake waiting to hear it, waiting to hear that he was safely home when he’d sneaked out late to meet Jenny. Jenny was a few years older than Stephen, and their parents hadn’t approved of him dating her at first. Robin alone knew that he was sneaking out to see her; their other brothers were younger and oblivious. She often wondered if Stephen knew that she’d been aware of what he was up to and had never breathed a word.

So that was definitely someone at or passing Stephen’s door.

_Someone? _she asked herself. _Mum and Dad wouldn’t creep. They wouldn’t need to. You know exactly who that someone is. _Her heart pounded. She wondered if he would knock on her door, ask to come in, finally kiss her—

The floorboard outside her room squeaked, and Robin jumped. He was right there, on the other side of her door. Desire flooded through her at the thought of him letting himself in, kissing her, touching her, his hands—

And then the next floorboard creaked, and the bathroom door squeaked open. She heard the light click on.

Disappointment deflated her. She flopped back onto the pillows and listened. The pause, the flush of the loo, the rattle from the sink pipes as he washed his hands, quiet footsteps back along the hall, the click of Stephen’s door.

Robin lay and looked at the ceiling. She almost felt like crying. She’d been so sure, so certain that he was coming to see her, coming to break down the barriers between them.

Abruptly she sat up again. This was her childhood home. He was a guest of her parents’. Of course he couldn’t make the first move and risk upsetting them. This was her territory, and the first move had to be hers.

Robin stood and crept to her door.

...

Back in bed, staring at the shadows of the airfix planes cast onto the wall by the moonlight, Strike cursed inside his head and called himself every name under the sun. He was a coward.

But what else could he have done? He’d hovered outside Robin’s door, his heart filled with longing and his body burning with need, but he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t turn the handle and go in. That room had been Robin’s sanctuary after her attack. What was he going to do, walk in there with a raging erection? What if he’d got this wrong? The thought of upsetting her or scaring her, the thought of waking her parents or that blasted dog again, had doused his arousal considerably. He’d given himself a firm reality check and turned to go back, and then the floorboard beneath him had squeaked loudly, and he was sure he’d heard a low growl from Rowntree, who was now in Robin’s parents’ room.

Afraid of Michael coming to investigate again, he’d gone on past Robin’s room to the bathroom, the only legitimate reason he could possibly have for wandering the hall. He’d made sure to flush the toilet in case anyone was listening.

Safely back in bed now, he wondered what would have happened had he knocked, softly, on Robin’s door. There had been no sound from within, and his hearing was pretty good. Was she asleep, that beautiful hair splayed across her pillow? Or was she lying there listening? Had she known he was right outside the door?

He sighed and rolled over onto his stomach, and then froze. Had he heard the click of a door down the hall? He wasn’t sure over the creak of the bed as he’d turned.

He lay still, listening. He could hear nothing. His fevered imagination wanted to believe that this was because Robin would know every wretched creaky floorboard in this house - and God knows he seemed to have stepped on them all - whilst his rational mind told him he’d imagined the first sound and what he was actually listening to was a silent corridor.

Whichever it was, it was a silence he could almost hear, it was so tangible. He strained his ears, concentrating. He felt as though he could feel her closeness, as though he could sense even without hearing a sound that she was just on the other side of the bedroom door.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Fanciful nonsense that he didn’t believe in.

Still he listened, and after a small eternity he heard it. The click of Robin’s door. She’d gone back to bed.

Strike rolled back onto his back and looked at the ceiling again. So, just like him, she’d made it almost all the way, lost courage and gone back.

Someone had to break the deadlock. If he was honest with himself, he’d half expected he’d pluck up the courage to have another go. It was why he hadn’t removed his prosthesis, even though he’d told himself that was in case he needed another pee after four pints in the pub.

Strike stood and crept back to his door.

...

Back inside her room, Robin took a shuddering breath and waited while her pounding heart slowed. Her hands curled into fists of frustration and she berated herself for chickening out.

Why had she not knocked, not turned the handle and crept in? She hadn’t been able to hear a single sound from within the room, and suddenly the tension was just too much and she couldn’t bear it. Her nerve had broken and she’d had to stop herself from running back to her room, forced herself to move slowly and quietly, follow the remembered pattern of steps that was silent on the ancient hallway floor.

Now she leaned back against her closed door, trembling.

_What now, then? _she asked herself. _Just going to get back into bed and calmly go to sleep, are you?_

She tilted her head up and looked at the ceiling, her eyes tracing the familiar cracks and swirls in the paint. How many hours had she stared at that ceiling as a broken nineteen-year-old?

This Robin wasn’t broken any more. This Robin was mended. This Robin didn’t just let things happen to her and wait for opportunities to come to her. Not any more. This Robin took charge of her own destiny.

She turned and quietly opened the door again, slipped out and eased it gently closed to keep the click as quiet as possible. She paused, resting her palms and forehead on the old wood, gathering the courage, and then she took a deep breath and turned, and almost wrecked the whole plan with a shriek.

Two steps from Stephen’s door, Strike was standing frozen, gazing at her.

...

They stood facing one another in the dark hallway. Robin’s hand was still over her mouth where she’d clapped it to contain her gasp. Strike’s eyes glittered at her in the dim light coming from the little window in the end wall behind her.

He was wearing a T-shirt and boxers, and her eyes roved across him shamelessly. She could see the dark hair that covered his forearms, the glint of his metal ankle— and a very definite sign of his desire pressing against the front of his boxers. Suddenly she was quite sure she hadn’t imagined the way he’d pressed against her bottom on that quad bike. She’d told herself not to be ridiculous, that she was flattering herself.

Desire clenched in her groin at the sight of his arousal, and she knew without looking down that her body was sending its own blatant signals back to him, her nipples clearly outlined under her cami top and her little shorts clinging to her.

Strike made to move towards her. Sense took over and Robin held up a hand, stopping him. She crept forward, stepping sharp left and then a little right, grinning at him as she dodged all the creaks until she was right next to him. Strike stared down at her, his eyes dark and hooded with desire, and Robin wanted to drown in his heated gaze. She forced herself to drag her eyes away, to slip past him. She grabbed his hand as she went and pulled him gently, quietly, back into Stephen’s room and closed the door.

She turned to face him and they stared at one another, silent, breathing shallowly, heat rising sharply.

Robin didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly they were in one another’s arms and kissing frantically, and it was everything she had always dreamed of and more. He tasted of tobacco and whisky, of smoke and spice, and his tongue was sure and confident against hers. His hands slid into her hair as he plundered her mouth, and he made no attempt to hide his - really quite impressive, Robin couldn’t help but notice - erection as it strained against her stomach. Trembling, Robin pressed closer, her arms around his neck, trying to devour him, taste and scent and feel, her breasts crushed against his chest, desire flooding her and dampening her shorts further.

Eventually, after long minutes, they broke apart, breathless, and stood and gazed at one another, panting.

A little dazed, Strike smiled softly at her. “What now?” he whispered.

Robin grinned at him, cheeky and still hazy with desire. “How quiet can you be?”

Strike stared, trying to read her eyes in the dim light. Surely she couldn’t mean—

“Quiet?”

Robin’s mouth twisted in a smirk and she stepped close again, pressing her hips to his, making him gasp and rock back at her as she rubbed against him.

“In bed,” she clarified. “Can you be quiet?”

“Oh, God, Robin—” With a groan he kissed her again, and this time she tangled her fingers into his curly hair, delighted to find it soft and springy. She had wondered for so long. She pulled him closer as they kissed, and whimpered as his hands settled on her hips where they had held her so tightly earlier, and then slowly slid up to her waist and on up, brushing the undersides of her breasts. Robin moaned and arched her back, pressing her breasts against his chest, longing to feel his hands on them.

Strike broke the kiss this time and drew back, shuddering.

“Christ, Robin,” he muttered. “I think we’d better slow down.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes grey storm-clouds. “Why?”

He took her hands gently in his and led her to the bed. They sat down next to one another and Strike drew a long, shaky breath. “Because if we go any further, we might not stop.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

He groaned under his breath. “Nor do I, but this is your parents’ house and they’re just along the hall. Tomorrow night, when you’ve had a chance to think, if you’re sure, we’ll be in a hotel...”

Robin sighed. He was right. She knew he was. They shouldn’t rush. But she ached, she absolutely ached for him, and she’d wanted him for so long. Was this really rushing?

“Can I at least stay for a bit?”

How could he resist those pleading blue-grey eyes? Against his better judgment, unable to send her away when she was suddenly, miraculously, here and tousled gorgeous and wanting him, Strike told himself he could keep to a few kisses. He nodded, and Robin grinned at him and climbed into the bed. Strike removed his prosthesis and climbed in next to her and lay down, and she reached for him, sliding her arm around his neck and kissing him again.

He knew at once that he’d been wrong to think that finally being in bed with Robin Ellacott could be in any way chaste. She wrapped herself around him, kissing him passionately, and he was lost. It was better than any dream, any fantasy about the two of them that he had ever had. She was soft and curving and smooth and so, so sexy. She kissed and kissed him and then drew back to run her mouth across his cheek, his jaw, his neck, making little breathy sounds of need, and Strike groaned and trembled under her touches, desire so powerful it was almost painful gripping him.

“Robin—” he gasped, and she drew back and grinned at him, cheeky. “Yes?”

“We’re in your mum and dad’s—”

She laid a finger on his lips to shush him. It was all he could do not to bite at it, she was so delicious.

Robin pulled herself slowly up, ignoring the creak of the bed, and slid one leg over him to straddle him, pushing him down onto his back. She settled herself on his thighs and eyed his erection tenting his boxers between them, straining to be free. She leaned over him, her hands sliding up under his T-shirt, fingers raking through his chest hair. She shuddered with arousal at the feel of him. He was so very masculine.

She leaned down and kissed his jaw again and slid her mouth to his ear.

“Cormoran,” she murmured.

“Mmm.” It was more moan than answer.

“If you genuinely want me to stop—” She nibbled his ear lobe and he gasped.

“If you really, truly want me to stop—” She licked into the shell of his ear and he groaned.

“If you honestly think we should stop—” She sucked at the soft skin below his ear and his hips bucked helplessly against her.

She raised her head to meet his searing gaze, her eyes hooded and languid with desire. “—then I’ll stop. Do you want me to stop?”

He was a shaking mess of need beneath her, totally lost. “No.” A single, strangled syllable.

“Me neither.” And she kissed him again.

Strike capitulated. He kissed her back, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts, to explore and touch. She was exquisite, perfect curves and softness, groaning and rocking against him as he stroked and cupped her and gently pinched her nipples, making her roll her hips and press her searing heat against his erection.

“Fuck, Cormoran,” she muttered. “You’re so...”

He half sat up, arms around her back, pulling her gently against him so he could take a nipple into his mouth through the soft cotton of her cami top. “So what?” he murmured as he mouthed and sucked at her, making her buck against him.

“So good at that,” she gasped, rocking harder as he nipped at her with his teeth.

The bed creaked, and Robin shuddered still, panting. Strike removed his mouth from her breast and grinned up at her. “I thought you said I had to be quiet?”

Her storm-cloud eyes were glazed. “We both do,” she whispered. “It’s kind of sexy.”

“God, Robin.” Never in a million years would he have imagined she would be like this in bed, cheeky and forward and a bit naughty. He’d imagined (when he’d allowed himself to) that he’d have to be patient, wait for her to be ready. He certainly hadn’t envisaged their first time being as silent as possible in her childhood home with her parents along the hall.

She was right. It was sexy, incredibly so. He was starting to seriously doubt how long he’d be able to last, with all the buildup they’d had to this moment and how desperately, tortuously aroused he was.

Robin eased herself back a little and pulled her top off over her head. Strike gazed at her, his eyes roving over her breasts. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely, and leaned forward to explore her again. Robin clung to him, her fingers biting into his shoulders, her head dropped back with ecstasy as he kissed and stroked and sucked gently at her. She rocked against him, rubbing herself against his erection through the two thin layers of cotton that separated them, and he groaned under his breath.

Desperate to feel him closer, Robin pressed him back down on the pillows and slid off him to lie next to him, pushing her pyjama shorts down out of the way and kicking them off. She pulled his boxers out of the way too and turned her body to his, pressing against him, wanting to feel all of him against her. His erection, freed from its restraint, thrust against the apex of her thighs, and she raised her thigh a little so that he could slide between her legs, against her aching core.

Strike groaned again at the feel of her, and slid a hand into her hair, pulling her mouth to his to kiss her. He thrust against her, unable to resist her searing heat pressed against his cock, and Robin groaned as his length rubbed along her clit. The bed clunked against the wall a little.

“Shh.” Robin stilled, listening, and Strike, trembling, tried to regain a little self-control. They were still fitted together at the hips, his cock nestled between her thighs, pressed against her slick heat, and it was all he could do to hold himself still, his body craving the stimulation of hers, the slide and push.

After a tortuous wait that only served to increase the tension, Robin gave in. With a low groan, she kissed him again and circled her hips against his, making him gasp and buck against her a little, trying to keep from jolting the bed again.

Tongues exploring one another’s mouths, they began to rock together, suffused with pleasure as he thrust into the juncture between her thighs and she rolled her hips back at him.

They rocked and kissed, gasped and bit back moans of pleasure, heat building rapidly between them. But all too soon it wasn’t enough. Robin ached for him to fill her, to be joined together properly.

She could no longer stand it. With a groan of frustration, she pushed his boxers right down out of the way so he could kick them off. Then she pressed him down and swung herself up and over him again, sitting on his thighs. She sat back and gazed at his cock for a moment, straining up towards her, and then she raised her gaze to his.

Strike watched her, his hands on her hips, his breathing unsteady and his body aching but held still, waiting, letting her lead the way.

She rocked forwards and met his gaze. “Okay?”

Strike shuddered as her curls brushed the tip of his cock. “Very, very okay,” he said hoarsely. “Do we need—?”

Robin shook her head. “Pill,” she murmured, and rocked back down onto him.

He couldn’t contain the deep groan that broke from his throat as she lowered herself down, sliding down his length, engulfing him with her heat, and Robin moaned in answer. She reached the base of him and froze, panting.

“You’re going to have to be quieter than that,” she whispered.

“I’ll try,” he gasped, and gritted his teeth as she began to move, rocking slowly.

They soon discovered that they had to stay below a certain pace to keep the bed quiet. Robin moved gently above him and he gazed up at her, awestruck, his hands clutching her hips as she swayed, moaning under her breath at the pleasure that stormed her, her head thrown back. She was perfect and beautiful and so sexy, the sight of her almost too much for his tenuous thread of control.

Still rocking gently, she looked down at him and smiled, her eyes glassy, and Strike felt a sudden surge of emotion. He grinned back up at her, happiness swelling along with pleasure. His hips bucked up a little and he saw the change in her eyes, heard her gasp, felt her rhythm stutter. He did it again and she moaned a little and dropped forward to kiss him, her hands clutching his shoulders. Her breasts moved against his chest, and his self-control began to shred. He wasn’t going to last much longer. He kept gently rocking, and she pulled her mouth from his.

“Fuck, Cormoran—” her voice splintered and she shuddered and gasped. He could feel the pulse of her orgasm as it rippled through her and he bucked up into her. He arched his back a little, and she clutched his shoulders, gasping, still thrusting erratically, chasing every last spasm.

He let go, and pleasure rushed at him suddenly. His hips jerked. The bed creaked but somehow he managed to keep his vocalisation to one fierce grunt as he exploded into her, his hands gripping her hips and his face buried in her hair as his whole body throbbed, mirroring the pulse of hers, his hips bucking.

Robin collapsed against him, her breasts pressed to his chest, and they breathed together hard, panting breaths, twitching with the aftershocks, slowly relaxing. Gradually she stilled, so heavy slumped against him that he wondered if she had fallen straight into sleep. His hands roved up her back, stroking, marvelling at her soft skin, unable to stop touching her even as they lay sated.

“I think that was just about quiet enough,” she whispered into his shoulder, and he chuckled.

Robin raised her head, one hand dragging her hair from her face, and grinned at him. “Hi,” she murmured.

“Hi,” he replied softly.

“I think I might be attracted to you,” she said. “Did I mention that?”

He grinned. “You did not, but I worked it out.”

She stared at him for a moment. “When?”

“When I saw you in the hallway. I am a detective, you know.”

Robin giggled. “Very good sleuthing.”

“I’m quite attracted to you too, you know.”

“I know. Now.”

“So what next?”

Robin looked thoughtful. “I creep back, at some point. I’d like this to be just us for a bit before we tell my parents, if that’s okay?”

She wanted a 'this’. His heart sang. “Okay.”

“But we have a hotel tomorrow night...?”

Strike grinned. “We do.”

“Won’t have to be so quiet there.”

“No.”

Robin slid gently off him and lay down next to him, laying her head on his shoulder. “That’s what’s next, then.”

His arms slid around her. “Sounds perfect.”


End file.
